


Vervain, Aconite, and Other Drugs

by nagapdragon



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Season/Series 01, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagapdragon/pseuds/nagapdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter’s familiar with the supernatural. The Romani pass the old tales down, the old warnings. Stay in on the nights of the full moon to protect against the <i> vârcolac </i>, holy water and a stake to the heart to end the life of an <i> upir </i>, not to call on spirits from the beyond without appeasing them with gifts. That magic is very real and it always has a price. He knows what Roman Godfrey is.</p>
<p>Dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vervain, Aconite, and Other Drugs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gelatichthyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gelatichthyes/gifts).



> I'm fudging the canon pseudoscience a teensy bit and the timeline more than a teensy bit. This has been a PSA.

_Spooky fucker._

Peter’s not in the habit of agreeing with cops. They’re petty and judgmental, in his experience. _Gadjo_ come in two kinds: those who are irrationally fascinated by the Romani, getting a thrill from some sick kind of voyeurism into the privacy of their lives, and those who hate them on principle. Gypsy thieves, they call them, murderers and liars and child-snatchers. The cops are worse- they have the power to act upon their prejudices, to make the lives of the Romani difficult in a constant barrage of little cruelties and suspicion. And if he does engage in a little petty theft here and there, well, he never takes from anyone who isn’t either an asshole or rich enough never to miss it. He’s got _morals_ , after all, which is more than can be said for half those card-carrying assholes. 

Still.

They’re not entirely wrong about Roman Godfrey. 

Peter’s familiar with the supernatural. The Romani pass the old tales down, the old warnings. Stay in on the nights of the full moon to protect against the _vârcolac_ , holy water and a stake to the heart to end the life of an _upir_ , not to call on spirits from the beyond without appeasing them with gifts. That magic is very real and it always has a price. He knows what Roman Godfrey is.

Dangerous.

Godfrey doesn’t attempt to close the breach between them, the span of empty field where Brooke Bluebell died. He’s incredibly out of place in the darkness, a child of wealth tromping around in the mud in shoes that probably cost more than everything Peter owns, pretending to belong. The night, the wild… these are Peter’s dominion, as much as they can be anyone’s, the Romani child hiding in the outskirts of civilization and the wolf who rules the night thrice a month. 

He backs away nonetheless. Roman Godfrey is _upir_ , and he is unused to being denied. A frightening combination, to be sure. Whether he is aware of his… gifts… or just using them blindly, it makes him a threat. Peter wouldn’t turn his back on a feral dog, not in this form, and he’s not fool enough to think Roman Godfrey is any different. 

Peter doesn’t run.

That’s not what this is. 

Godfrey watches him go, blood dripping freely from his nose, and right before Peter fades into the darkness he winks.

 

***

 

They dance around each other for days that drag into infinitesimal aeons. 

Roman Godfrey watches him in History, in English, in Math. Peter can feel his gaze on the back of his neck, the warning prickle that would have his hackles raised in his other skin. In the halls and the lunchroom, it’s Peter tracking Godfrey’s every move, the way he dotes on his sister and his cousin to the exclusion of everyone else who shows any interest in him.

It’s distracting. 

The classes he has alone- _no, not alone, just not with Roman Godfrey_ \- are hollow and dull by comparison. Most of the school shuns him in whispers of _gypsy murderer_ and _I bet he kills them because they rejected him_ and _they’re all killers, you know_ pitched just right for his ears. They like to pull out extra silver jewelry whenever they have to sit next to him in class and carry crosses like he’s a damn vampire. His books are covered in scribbles of slurs from the one time he left them unattended. 

Same shit as always.

It probably says how faintly intimidated the children of Hemlock Grove are by Roman Godfrey that they cut that shit out when he’s in the room. Peter figures Godfrey’s got a low tolerance for bullies of any kind, the way he has to protect his sister from them. She’s a sweet girl, according to any of the people who aren’t intimidated by her height and her disability and her brother. She’s a sweetheart, if anyone asked him- doesn’t know what to do about his flirtations, but smiles and says the sweetest things anyways.

She’s why he didn’t brush Godfrey off about a ride. The way he takes care of Shelley, that’s human. That’s more emotion, more empathy, than Nicolae taught him an _upir_ was capable of. Shelley likes her brother, and as far as Peter can see he likes her back, so he can’t be all bad.

The fact that he drives a sweet car is only a bonus.

As for why he lets him watch when the moon is full, why he stands vulnerable before Roman Godfrey and lets him see his biggest secret and his worst pain, well. That’s one part payback for chasing the cops off and one part the memory of Godfrey’s smug smile, blood dripping across his lips, and that damn wink. It’s _can I watch?_ in bold capitals on a scrap of paper and a shy glance away as if unable to meet Peter’s eyes.

Roman Godfrey is a dichotomy of arrogant commands and shy fears, dangerous and innocent, helpless and powerful. Nicolae always told him to listen to the magic, no matter whether he likes what it tells him or not, that magic comes from the beyond and the beyond knows what’s best. He doesn’t mean to say yes, but that’s what comes out anyways. 

The moon ravages him, denying all that is Peter Rumancek and leaving the wolf in his place, but through every moment of it he can feel Roman Godfrey’s eyes on him. He never looks away, never shakes, not even when Peter knows it’s horrific to watch. Nicolae tried to warn Lynda as best he could, but even that wasn’t enough to prepare her for her child being shredded from the inside out. She’s unconcerned now, faintly impressed at Roman’s nonchalance. 

_Pack_ , the wolf decides, sniffing Roman. He bumps against Lynda’s leg in greeting as Peter fades away into the wolf, thoughts of rabbits in the brush and the distant smell of another predator trespassing on _their_ territory overtaking his worries.

Lynda Rumancek, _pack_. 

Destiny Rumancek, _pack_.

Nicolae Rumancek, _alpha-turned-feral_. 

Roman Godfrey, _pack_. 

What the _fuck_ is Peter supposed to do with that?

 

***

 

“Be careful, you little shit.”

“What, no hello?”

Destiny cuffs him and Peter grins. Lynda’s all wrapped up in human courtesies, in the polite bullshit. Magic isn’t polite and it sure as hell isn’t nice. The wolf rips its way out of his skin whether he likes it or not once a month, on the true full moon, and on the day before and the day after he can choose to go through the same pain voluntarily for the freedom of the wolf. It cracks and rearranges his bones, it shreds his skin, and then it eats everything it destroys. From the human the wolf comes, to the wolf the human must return. Destiny, too, she’s got real power, but it comes at the price of psychoactive drugs that make her lose her control over what she sees. Her gifts take a visible toll on her body, one that Peter does his best to help her through, but the drinking’s the only glimpse of what they wreak on her mind. 

She gets it.

“I am being careful,” he tells her.

“You let him see you shift. A fucking _upir_ , Petey, and in a town where they already think you’re a werewolf who killed Brooke Bluebell. If that’s your kind of careful, I don’t want to see reckless. Dolt.” Destiny stalks off into her kitchen, throwing the insult over her shoulder. Peter follows her, fishing through the fridge for something to eat while Destiny twists the caps off a couple of bottles. 

“Lynda says the Godfreys are bad business.”

“Your mother’s not wrong,” Destiny agrees. “The Godfrey Institute is all kinds of sneaky and Olivia Godfrey’s a cold-hearted sociopath if I ever saw one. The kids are alright, I guess, but only if by ‘alright’ you mean ‘messed up in a big way’. Roman’s manipulative and kinda spooky, not to mention the whole _upir_ bit, even I don’t know what’s up with Shelley, and Letha’s related to the whole mess of them. Here.” She lets go of his bottle without checking if he’s got a hold of it first, stealing the first sandwich he made and taking a bite out of it. “Seriously, Peter? Nobody needs this much mustard.”

“That would be because I made it for myself.”

“Don’t whine, it doesn’t look good on you.” Destiny tosses herself across the couch, holding on to Peter’s sandwich despite her complaints. “I say you ought to lay low. Don’t do anything suspicious, don’t give them any reason to come after you. You know how _gadjo_ are.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Yes, he knows how they are. Destiny’s got a little safety in the type of life she leads. Her whole ‘sacred whore’ con is embarrassing enough that nobody talks about it and freaky enough that they don’t come after her for their money. She’s got all the trinkets and fake magic that anybody would expect from a gypsy mystic, plus real magic that she’ll use for the right price. People expect to pay for fake magic enough that they won’t talk about to real kind, no matter how little they like the answer. 

“I can’t do that, Des, you know I can’t.”

Destiny sighs. “And you won’t poke around without the Godfrey kid.”

“We have the same dreams.”

“It’s more than that. This is the one secret you don’t tell anyone, even with your feet on hot coals, and you told it to an _upir_. Not just told, showed. That’s more than sharing dreams, pup, and you better be glad I actually believe in what you’re saying.”

Peter ducks his head, suddenly shy like he hasn’t been since his first-ever shift. Destiny turns to lean against his back, tipping her head against the back of his neck. She lets him take his time answering for once, finishing his sandwich and her beer. 

“Thewolflikeshim,” he mumbles, rushing it all together.

Destiny freezes, going entirely still. Peter can’t even feel her breathing. Achingly slowly, she sits up and turns to face him, surprisingly quiet on the creaky springs. Des usually makes a lot of noise, but Peter’s pretty sure it’s just to make sure nobody notices how quiet she can be. 

“Say that again.”

“The wolf. It likes him.” Peter coughs. “Decided he’s pack, actually.”

“Well, that’s fucked up.” Destiny finishes her beer and steals his with a quelling look that says he ought to be grateful for the half he got to drink. “If you insist on poking around, promise me you’ll be careful. The both of you.”

“Of course.”

Destiny pushes at his shoulder until he turns to face her, letting her cup his face between her hands and meeting her eyes directly. She shakes her head, unconvinced by what she sees there, and tips her forehead to lean against his. 

“I’m serious. Roman Godfrey’s _upir_ , and that means that what you and I would call a nice trip six feet under is what he’d call an awakening. You’re not stupid, you’ll keep yourself safe… ish… but you watch his back too. The last thing we need is a starving _upir_ with newfound powers and no morals on top of a _vargulf_.”

“I promise, Des. I promise.”

 

***

 

Roman is a terrible enabler.

That’s the only reason why Peter can actually believe he’s out here in the middle of the night, digging up Lisa Willoughby’s grave to gather her damn intestines. Sure, it’s the _easiest_ way to channel her spirit and find out something, anything, but Destiny’s got other means. Ones that don’t involve intestines or grave robbing or the ecstatic light in Roman’s eyes, the one that Peter’s equal parts drawn to and afraid of. Mostly the excitement over doing something dangerous and wrong, the fearlessness of someone who knows that by money and power they’ll never get in trouble for anything they do. 

No risk, no consequences.

It’s that look that makes Peter snappish. There might not be consequences for _Roman_ if they get caught, but there’ll be a cost for Peter if the cops so much as suspect that he had anything to do with it. Peter hasn’t known Roman for that long, not really, but he’s already learning that that look means Roman’s got about half a plan and a whole lot of determination to make up for what he doesn’t have figured out. It’s the glint in his eyes before he flirts with a girl just to prove he can have anyone he wants, before he made bullies kiss in the halls for bothering Shelley, even right before tossing Peter that fateful note. 

It’s the one he sees turned on himself when Roman doesn’t think he’s looking. 

“Did you actually dress up as a grave robber?”

“No!” Roman frowns, hunching in on himself self-consciously for a spit second before he straightens to his full height, arrogant mask back in place. “I dressed up like you.”

Peter rolls his eyes and walks away. Roman’ll follow. Peter’s starting to think he always will. 

“How many funerals have you been to?”

Roman’s also physically incapable of silence.

“A few. Rumanceks are reliably kicking it as a result of positive lifestyle choices.”

Roman considers that, _hmm_ -ing in quiet agreement. They dig in silence for a while, trading off who digs and who keeps watch. Peter’s just taken the shovel again when Roman perches on the edge of the grave, kicking him to get his attention.

“What are they like for your people? Funerals, I mean.”

“Committed.” Peter pauses and leans into the shovel. “You’re not allowed to eat or wash, mirrors are covered, and the dead guy’s stuff is burnt.”

“Why?”

“Because a Rumancek should not be remembered for his worldly things.” He resumes digging, tossing a shovelful of dirt into Roman’s lap just to hear him squawk. “They also cut off their head.”

“What?” Roman nearly falls in the hole, which would be entirely hilarious if it wouldn’t land all six-foot-three of him on top of Peter _and_ a dead chick. He’s not entirely sure if it’s over the dirt or the decapitation.

“Things… happen to our kind after death if you don’t do the head.”

“What kind of things?”

“The bad kind.” 

Roman gets that Peter’s done sharing, lapsing into silence again. He kicks his feet idly against the wall of the hole, occasionally scanning the graveyard with the flashlight pointed low to the ground. 

“I’ve been to two funerals,” Roman muses aloud. “One was my dad’s. It’s all pieces, you know, up here.” He taps his temple, then leans back on his hands. “I remember hearing the shot and going downstairs. He was on the floor. I remember thinking how much _trouble_ he’s be in for the _mess_.”

“That’s _fucked_ up.”

“Dig,” Roman orders. There’s a pleading edge to it, like he shared more than he ever meant to, and Peter does the kindest thing he can imagine right now- he doesn’t mention it and keeps digging. Roman’ll owe him for this one but maybe, just maybe, digging up a grave with him will be enough. 

He reaches Lisa Willoughby’s casket before the silence stretches past comfortable, past easy, all the way into awkward silence. This ought to be the worst part of it, the actual grave desecration bit in the larger act of grave desecration, but it’s far more comfortable to deal with the slime and associated grossness of decomposition than _secrets_. Confiding in Roman is far easier than when it goes the other way, when Roman confides in him and he has to juxtapose the potential danger of the _upir_ with the reality of the fucked up kid. 

“What’s your cousin gonna do with that?”

“What she can.” He’s not being evasive, not really. He doesn’t know what the hell Destiny can do with intestines and herbs, just that it’s likely to be the freaky kind of magic that’s uncontrollable and gross as hell. Already is gross as hell. The _wolf_ might not be bothered by the insides of things being on the outside, but that doesn’t mean _Peter_ isn’t. “No promises.”

Roman nods, offering him a hand out of the grave. “Freaky bullshit magic leads better than none at all?”

“You know it. Now I want out of this place before the cops come calling.” He starts to walk away- it’s been a miracle that nobody’s come poking around this long. He doesn’t want to push their luck with filling in the hole, not even with Roman’s compulsion to protect them from immediate consequences. Roman catches up with him in a few stupidly long strides, striding ahead and twisting around to watch Peter follow. 

“The other funeral.”

“Yeah?” Peter checks over his shoulder before they step out towards the road. Roman left his car in town by the bar, where everyone’ll assume he got drunk off his ass and had to be picked up. If the bartender’s asked, the fifty bucks in his pocket will have him remembering the same thing. The compulsion doesn’t hurt, either. 

“It was Shelley’s.”

_Shit_. He’ll have to ask Des about that, see if that’s any kind of possible, but now is _not_ the time. There are lights in the distance, the sweep of a pair of flashlights blinking as they pass behind gravestones, and they need to be gone like _yesterday_. 

He grabs Roman by the sleeve and drags him into the woods. Peter leads his way through the brush and the low-hanging limbs with the wolf’s intuition about these things, Roman crashing along behind him with all the grace of someone who grew up under a canopy of marble and chandeliers rather than branches and stars.

It must be fifteen minutes that they run, but it feels like forever. Roman’s hand twines easily through his, letting Peter lead and never letting go, trusting him to get them the hell away. They collapse against each other against the wide base of a tree somewhere in the middle of nowhere, laughing until they gasp for breath. Peter slides down against the tree, hair tangling in the ridges of the bark, dragging Roman down into the roots beside him.They’re deep in the wolf’s territory and hell if Peter knows exactly where, just that he knows it’s _safe_ and _far from town_ and _private_. 

Roman doesn’t let go of his hand, leaving their fingers tangled in the scant inches of space between them, just far enough to not lean against each other for support. Laughter subsides into labored breathing and the rustle of the wind through the November leaves. 

The branches overhead are not yet December-skeletal, clad in the last stubborn leaves in their burnished colors. This close to the Lakes they’re enjoying the protection of the water against the early winter chill already seizing the westernmost parts of the north, the clear skies belying the imminent threat of snow. The wolf’s coat was heavier this last moon, warm enough in the not-yet chill of late fall to leave him sweating when his pelt vanished under the morning light, and his jacket isn’t quite warm enough in the mornings any longer.

Roman fishes around in his pocket for a cigarette, leaving Peter to find a lighter in his own pocket, lighting it as it dangles haphazardly between his lips. He blows a lazy smoke ring and passes the smoke to Peter. It’s an awkward rhythm, passing the cigarette between their off hands to avoid acknowledging their fingers still linked in the space between them. 

“I can’t believe we just did that.”

Peter exhales in a rush of smoke, tipping his head back to stare at the break in the clouds. In town, the glow from the White Tower obscures almost all the stars, leaving the moon hanging lonely in the sky. Here, the sky a dark canvas, the darkest blue broken by the inky shadows of arching branches and the scattered pinpricks of light. 

Beautiful.

He passes the cigarette back to Roman, closing the spare inches between them to lean into him. Roman slides a couple inches down against the tree, bringing their shoulders level and leaning back into him, blowing another smoke ring. 

Showoff.

“I cant believe we came so close to getting caught,” he corrects, snagging the cigarette back from Roman. 

“Shit,” Roman swears, dragging it out into two long syllables, _shee-it_. “We just desecrated a damn grave. Dug her up and took her guts with us.”

“Shee-it,” Peter echoes. 

They smoke their way through the rest of the pack out there, listing further and further into each others’ sides, fingers laced the entire time. 

 

***

 

Letha Godfrey is everything he ought to want: kind, smart as hell, and interested in him. 

She’s also entirely human, which isn’t something most people have to consider in their potential partners. There’s not a drop of _upir_ blood whispering of addiction and destruction in her veins, nor is there the blood of a _vârcolac_ singing to her during the full moon, nor the heady touch of any of a dozen breeds of not-quite-humans lurking in the quiet corners of the world. She’s more human than the Romani with the lingering traces of _vârcolac_ in them all and the pesky magic that manifests itself in Destiny and her ilk, untainted by the weirdness that surrounds them and yet accustomed to dealing with it in her cousin. 

Roman.

That’s another problem entirely. 

He knows why Roman stays close to him. Roman may not know about his _upir_ heritage- he can’t see it, smell it, like Peter can- but the effects are well-documented. An _upir_ ’s gifts are powered by blood, by their own in absence of fresh human blood, and the magic inherent in a _vârcolac_ ’s blood is a temptation too strong to resist. They’re addictive to _upir_ , Nicolae warned him, and _upir_ have wiped out dozens of bloodlines in search of the elusive _vârcolac_ blood. Roman may not recognize the origin of his draw to Peter, but that doesn’t change it.

Letha, at least, likes him because she likes him. 

He thinks.

He doesn’t make her any promises and she smirks, looking more like her cousin in that moment than he knew was possible. She glances up the hill to the road, amused by whatever she sees there, leaning in to brush a kiss over his cheekbone. 

“Take care of my cousin,” she orders. “He doesn’t have many friends, and I like you too much to have to kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try.” 

“Mmm, I have a wicked knack for finding ticklish spots.” Letha pushes him into his hammock with gentle hands, setting it swinging slowly under his weight. “I think that you and I ought to go shopping. Today.”

Peter swings his feet up on to the hammock, rocking it under his shifting weight, and tucks his hands beneath his head. Letha leans against the tree at his feet, smiling cryptically down at him, one hand resting idly on her barely-curved stomach. 

“Need someone to carry your bags for you?”

“Always,” Letha assures him, “but tonight I need a date.”

“A date?”

“You know, when two people dress up and go do something fun together? Or, in this case, something much less fun that your presence will make so much more tolerable.” Letha makes a face. “It’ll irritate my cousin and keep me amused, if that helps.”

Peter stretches, watching Letha’s eyes rake over his lean muscle. She’s a Godfrey, used to playing by the same rules as Roman is. A Godfrey always gets what they want. For Roman, that means liberal use of powers he doesn’t understand, combining a silver tongue with a dash of compulsion to do as he pleases. Letha, he’s quickly learning, uses her harmless demeanor and bright smiles to do the same thing. 

He’s tempted to let her have her way.

“I have to go see my cousin today,” he demurs, swinging his legs back on to the ground. “You’ll have to find someone else to shop with you, unfortunately.”

“I’ll drag Roman with me,” she sighs. “Will you come to the gala with me anyways?”

“Sure,” he shrugs. What could go wrong?

 

***

 

Roman.

Roman’s what could go wrong.

Standing at Letha Godfrey’s side, nobody questions his right to be there. He fetches her glasses of lemonade and water, he tracks down _that one particular tray of snacks_ when she gets peckish and none of the other identical trays taste the same. He has a lovely conversation with Norman Godfrey about school and about ethics that only contains mild threats of _if you hurt my daughter_ in it and he exchanges meaningless platitudes with a dozen other investors and higher-tier employees at the White Tower. Letha parades him around like he’s some kind of prize, which would be kind of flattering if Olivia hadn’t muttered something about _filthy dogs in her foyer_ when she saw him. 

Roman won’t talk to him, which Letha seems to find immensely funny, and he disappeared fifteen or so minutes ago. If she were feeling better, he’d sneak off and try to track Roman down, shake some kind of answer out of him. It’d get him out of listening to Olivia’s bland speech about how much everyone misses her dear, darling, departed husband. 

Letha’s nails digging into his forearm say everything he needs to know about how much _Olivia_ misses J.R. Godfrey. 

Olivia’s head snaps to the side for a brief moment before she composes herself, apologizing before she proceeds on with her speech. Whoever’s idea it was to have Olivia Godfrey give this very moving speech either has a grudge against Godfrey Industries or ought to be fired. On second thought, they ought to be fired either way- anybody who ever met Olivia would know that J.R.’s brother Norman is a much better choice for this speech. 

For one, he’s not a sociopath.

_Blood…_

Peter’s head snaps up, looking in the same direction Olivia had looked. His senses aren’t full-moon strong, but they’re strong enough. He excuses himself from Letha, leaving her in her mother’s tender clutches, and slips out the side door. No sense being too safe, not with a _vargulf_ on the loose. 

He stalks through the halls, following his nose and staying out of sight, slipping into some kind of secretary’s office with the door to the main office cracked open. The scent of blood is strongest here and a woman came tearing through the halls a few minutes ago- Peter ducked into an unlocked closet to avoid her out of some weird sense that he really shouldn’t be here. 

He eases up to the door, giving himself a few long breaths to listen to the near-silence beyond. There’s still someone in there, breathing in an uneven pattern of sharp inhales and slow exhales. With a little luck, they’re not bleeding out on the floor- he can’t let someone die, but he doesn’t want to be caught up in that mess. Peter gives himself one more slow breath, _in and out_ , and peers through the gap in the door. 

Whoever’s still in the the room is in the office chair, facing out over the fourth story window, splatters of blood leading from a small pool by one wall in a dotted trail over to the chair. What looks like a handprint is smeared in red across the glass tabletop, dragged in an arc across the gleaming surface. 

Peter slips in the door, padding as quietly across the tile floor as he can in his ill-fitting dress shoes. He should have kicked them off before this whole trying to be sneaky bit, but Lynda would murder him if he lost them. They actually bought those ones, not stole them, even if it was several years and a couple shoe sizes ago. 

“You’re shit at being quiet,” Roman drawls from the other side of the room, not bothering to turn around. “And you can go tell my dear mother that I’m _just fine_. Fucking peachy, even.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Now why would I do that? Your mother’s made her opinion of me only too clear.” 

Roman’s breathing stops.

Peter pads around the edge of the desk, perching with his back to Roman. After a few moments, Roman’s breathing evens out again. 

Peter doesn’t look.

Even in the woods, that was an implicit limitation. They held on to each other like the world was trying to drag them apart, they shared a pack of cigarettes one by one, they whispered secrets into the still November air, and the entire time they never looked at each other. It wasn’t real that way, wasn’t personal, because neither of them knows how to do personal. 

_(He can still feel the touch of Roman’s unblinking stare while he shifted, his eyes the last thing Peter saw before the wolf took over and the first thing the wolf saw when it emerged. Neither of them, man or wolf, can quite manage to forget it.)_

He doesn’t look, doesn’t even check their reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and he waits. Peter can be patient, when the occasion calls for it, and he’s certainly got enough patience to out-wait Roman. Don’t look, don’t touch, don’t talk. 

The blood overpowers Roman’s cologne.

Peter thinks it fits him better this way. 

“Don’t take it personal,” Roman finally drawls. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

Peter hums a non-committal answer and stares at the painting of a lighthouse in a storm across from him, above the office’s minibar which is probably full of water bottles and granola bars and all that shit to pretend they don’t drink away their feelings here in the White Tower. That’s the kind of shit the unwashed masses do, not the doctors and businessmen and whoever the hell else has their pristine chrome and glass offices here. 

He bets they think they’re subtle with all the lighthouse imagery. It’s the fourth lighthouse painting-photo-statue he’s seen so far and he hasn’t really been poking around too much. This one’s particularly obvious- the lighthouse in clean, sharp lines of white and red, lantern glowing out into the night. The rest of the painting is tumultuous whorls of heavy paint for the rising tide and jagged smears of lightning, messy and uncoordinated, for all the beauty it’s supposed to represent. Wild, untamed, saved only by the grace of the lighthouse keeper.

Real subtle.

It’s a terrible painting, anyways. If it weren’t so damn big, he’d be tempted to steal it just for the twenty bucks he could get from some shoddy hotel trying to class it up a bit. His Auntie Selene, who isn’t really his aunt but taught him everything he knows about forgery anyways, could do better with a cardboard box and half-dried acrylics tossed out by the local school.

“Shee-it,” Roman swears, and slides lower in his chair. “There goes my reputation.”

“What, your reputation for being a spooky fucker and getting what you want?”

“Fuck you, Rumancek.”

“Right back at you, Godfrey.”

The chair squeaks as Roman stands, taking two strides to stand next to Peter. He pauses before joining him on the desk, back curved in the inverse of Peter’s own, just faintly not warm enough in the heavy air conditioning. 

“If you get blood on my shirt, my mother will end you,” he warns. 

“If I get blood on your shirt, I’ll buy you one that doesn’t make you look like a mariachi who misplaced their trumpet.”

Peter grins. “Excuse you, I would so play the guitar.”

“You wish,” Roman sighs, leaning more of his weight against Peter. He tips his face skyward, draped over Peter’s shoulder, close enough that his breathing shifts Peter’s hair with every exhale. 

“You smell like blood,” he tells Roman, for lack of anything else to say. Roman snorts.

“No fucking shit.” Roman’s shoulder shifts against his, dragging a finger across his chest and bringing it to his lips. Peter’s nose wrinkles. Blood doesn’t do anything for him, not like it clearly does for Roman, but it doesn’t bother him either. They’ve been here a while, though, so that’s got to be congealing and nasty. 

He says as much, because Peter doesn’t have any kind of brain-to-mouth filter.

Roman shrugs.

“It’s hot. Life and death, red dripping in the dips and hollows of their skin and the tang of iron on my tongue. It’s like the first puff of a cigarette after a long time without, or a line of coke, or the best kind of sex.”

“ _Way_ too much information. And you’re heavy.”

Roman drops his hand back to the desk, sliding it across the desk blindly to rest on top of Peter’s hand. Peter spreads his fingers, letting Roman’s drop into the gaps, and lets his head drop back to rest on Roman’s shoulder. 

“You have a cigarette?”

“Do I look like I have a cigarette?”

“You always have a cigarette. And I haven’t looked at you since you fucked off from the party-“

“ _Gala._ ”

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t know what you look like, that’s kind of the point. Bloody, I’d imagine, with how much is on the floor.” And how much he can smell, but he doesn’t admit that to anyone. 

It’s the _vârcolac_ ’s greatest secret, one of the very few things that’s passed from _vârcolac_ to _vârcolac_ without ever sharing it with outsiders. Most of their history, their biology, is Romani lore, but they’ve kept the balance of wolf and man a secret. Most people, even most Romani, think he’s a man who turns into the wolf on the full moon. That the man and the wolf are mutually exclusive apart from those shattered moments when one becomes the other. They’d all be wrong, of course, but their continued tolerance- and his continued survival- depend on that.

“It’s like… fuck, I used to have these photos, you know, except I was a pretentious little shit so they were black and white and all artistic. And in some of them, there was blood, or tinted water, or fucking molasses for all I care, sliding over shoulders and breasts and swell of a sweet ass, over unmarked skin and tattooed skin and scarred skin alike, and it was the hottest fucking thing I’d ever seen.” Roman pauses for breath, tipping his head sideways until his lips are pressed against the underside of Peter’s jaw, against the fragile skin there. He smiles, whispering breathily into the non-space between them, “At least until I tried it myself.”

Peter lets his free hand slide back, searching out Roman’s other hand and slipping his fingers between Roman’s. This is something horribly fragile between them, catching his breath in his throat at the barest brush of Roman’s lips over his jaw. It’s a perilous balance- Peter’s slowly sliding off the desk under Roman’s weight and he’s already starting to feel a crick in his neck- but neither one of them dares to move.

“Peter? Peter, where’d you get to?”

He and Roman jerk apart, Peter to hurry to the door and Roman to stand by the window. He slips out, keeping the door mostly shut, before Letha can come poking around and find Roman and his pools of blood. 

“In here, in here,” he calls out, settling behind the secretary’s desk and trying to look nonchalant. Letha, pale enough that he has to agree with her mother’s desire to take her away from here, sighs with relief when she sees him. 

“I thought you got lost, ended up locked in some lab somewhere.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Is that a legitimate issue you have here?”

“Mmm, depends on whether my cousins and I were playing hide and seek or not.” Letha laughs, fading into a bright smile. “Have you seen Roman, by the way?”

Peter considers the room behind him for a split second, the blood cooling on the tile and Roman’s shirt tossed onto a lamp, and then there isn’t really a decision to be made, is there?

“Haven’t seen him since he pulled a Houdini earlier,” he lies. Letha smiles, leaning forward to swipe her thumb across the skin of his throat. 

“I’m well aware of my cousin’s… habits,” she tells him, turning her hand to show the faint streak of blood across her thumb. “Luckily for you, I’m also a Godfrey, and we keep our secrets.”

“Letha,” he starts to explain, but she turns and waves him off. 

“I’m going home. Tell Roman I’m expecting him to take me to lunch tomorrow.” Letha halts in the doorway, turning to give Peter one last searching look. “And, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

 

***

 

The first time Peter sees Roman after he’s kind-of arrested, in the way that rich kids are never _really_ arrested, he’s stretched out on Peter’s hammock when Peter wakes up. By the pile of cigarettes burnt down to the filter on the rock Peter uses as an ashtray, he’s been there a while. 

“Saw your mom,” Roman says instead of hello. “Aren’t those mine?”

Peter looks down at the loose cotton pajama pants he’s wearing, the drawstring cinched tight around his waist and the legs rolled up to be just short enough. He doesn’t remember taking them, but they’re too nice to be anything of his and too long on him to belong to anyone but Roman. He shrugs instead, taking another bite of his cereal and already regretting his lack of a shirt in the late November air. 

The wolf prickles just under his skin with the full moon just days away, but it’s not enough to keep him warm, but just enough to help him make bad decisions.

“What did Lynda say? Wait, no, hold up.” Peter yawns, walking back into the trailer and holding the door open for Roman to follow. Roman drapes himself across the couch while Peter’s getting more cereal, considering a lukewarm cup of whatever dregs are in the coffee pot. “Jesus, Roman, did you have to take up the entire couch?”

“Don’t be a dumbass, I left you plenty of room.”

Peter’s not so sure what the definition of ‘room’ is in whatever language Roman Godfrey thinks in is, but he’s got enough younger cousins to have his own definition of it. He stretches out right on top of Roman, ignoring his pained yelp as Peter’s elbow digs into his ribs. 

“You know, the couch makes a better couch than you do.”

“No wonder it’s given up, if it has to deal with your bony ass every day,” Roman retorts, moving Peter to a slightly more comfortable position on his lap. He nips at the curve of Peter’s shoulder gently, a sharp press of teeth that’s over in an instant. 

Peter freezes, every muscle locking up, and then he relaxes all at once, tossing his empty bowl onto the coffee table and doing his best to smother Roman. Roman dumps him on to the floor, twisting faster than he humanly should be able to- _because he’s not human, remember that_ \- and pins him down, fingers laced with Peter’s and his full weight on Peter’s thighs.

They both freeze, then, unsure what to say.

“If you spilled my cereal, you ass,” Peter threatens, and Roman laughs and helps him to his feet. 

 

***

 

Two and a half days later, Roman kisses the hell out of him, pushing him away about two seconds before his bones crunch and the wolf takes over. He whispers _come back to me_ to the wolf, ruffling his fur and earning a stripe licked across his cheek. 

Three days later, when Peter stumbles in from the change, Roman’s comatose.

 

***

 

Peter barely leaves Roman’s side.

At first, Olivia won’t let him in. He has Letha and Shelley to thank for his continued presence in the Godfrey mansion, for sneaking him in and bringing him food and water. It’s almost a week before Olivia notices, another few days before she catches him there, and by then she’s resigned to his presence and tells him ‘not to dirty the rest of the house with his unwashed dog smell or she’ll rip his throat out’. Peter thinks she’s warming to him.

Letha sits with him sometimes, the two of them keeping watch over Roman’s still form. She talks about her pregnancy and her favorite places in the world and growing up with Roman and Shelley. He talks about cons he’s pulled and places he’s lived and his various cousins and people he calls cousins. He brushes her hair out, she teaches him to braid it. If Roman was his first friend, then Letha’s his second, and when he falls asleep with his head by Roman’s hip she drapes a blanket over him and murmurs _I miss him, too_. 

Shelley spends most of her time in the attic with him, painting furiously in the section of the attic that he’s dubbed her studio. They leave each other alone, not for any dislike of each other, but simply because they have different methods of coping. Shelley paints what she feels, filling canvas after canvas with brilliant smears of discordant color and then settling down to paint a beautiful still life. Peter lives at Roman’s side, listening to every breath and hoping that every sleeping twitch is the one that’ll herald his awakening. 

He doesn’t believe the whole bullshit story about a panic attack and a sedative that shouldn’t have worked quite so well. Roman said something about strange goings on in the White Tower the day of the full moon, when Peter was too keyed up to be much of a good conversationalist. He bets, in the quiet recesses of his mind where he hates more viciously that he knew he could before, that Roman went poking around alone and that they took him out. Olivia certainly seems incredibly unconcerned for her son lying in a coma- she’s barely ever here, and only then when Norman or Marie are coming to visit their nephew. 

He hates himself for it most of all. For the first time in years, he _hates_ being _vârcolac_ , he hates the wolf, he hates that the one damn night they had some kind of lead he was running around on four legs hunting rabbits rather than watching Roman’s back. He almost wants to destroy the machinery, let Roman die- he’d wake a full _upir_ and probably hating Peter, but at least he’d be awake.

Roman, that fucker, couldn’t wait one damn night for Peter to back him up and got himself a coma in repayment. Peter’s mad at him, too, but it comes in fits and doesn’t last. Can’t last, not when he’d give anything to see Roman awake again, to hear him crack jokes about frisbees that Peter’s heard a thousand times now and generally be his… his… fuck, he doesn’t know what Roman is, just that he needs him back. 

“Wake up, you asshole,” he mumbles and falls asleep clutching Roman’s hand.

 

***

 

This ends now.

He should’ve gone after the _vargulf_ last month. It killed a girl and her boyfriend who were camping in the forest on the night of the full moon. The bodies were found that morning, according to Destiny. He should’ve changed the next night, on the third night of the moon cycle, and hunted the _vargulf_ while the scent was still fresh. He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve… but Roman was unconscious and nothing else mattered.

He’s had a month to get used to that.

The sunset streaks red across the sky, staining the clouds red in its wake. It means something very different for a _vârcolac_ than for a sailor, though, and Peter knows blood will be spilled tonight. With a little luck, it’ll be the _vargulf_ ’s, not his, and if he’s quick and clever- or rather, if the wolf is- nobody else needs to get hurt.

“I’m sorry, Roman,” he whispers, squeezing Roman’s hand one final time before he has to leave. “Probably not going to survive this one. A _vargulf_ … that’s nasty shit. They’re stronger than I am, but someone’s got to do it. So, umm… wake up, you asshole, and don’t let Des mourn too much. She thinks black looks a lot better on her than it does.”

Peter closes his eyes. It’s the right thing to do- the only thing to do. If Destiny knew, she’d murder him before the _vargulf_ had a chance. A _vargulf_ is a disease, as she’s fond of pointing out, and it’ll destroy itself sooner or later. Shifting on the wrong moon is an abomination against nature, and nature always rights her wrongs. 

“Shee-it,” he swears, letting go of Roman’s hand.

“You fucking fucktard,” Roman swears, grabbing at his hand, “you stop right fucking there so I can tear you a fucking new one, you fucking idiot.” He grabs Peter by the hair, dragging him into a sloppy kiss marked by too many teeth to be anything but staking a claim. 

“Of course you wake up tonight,” Peter complains when they break for air. Roman’s free hand, the one that isn’t tangled in Peter’s hair, sneaks up under the hem of his shirt. “And your hands are cold, just in case you cared to know that.”

“Of course my hands are cold, my hands are _always_ cold. How long was I out?”

“A month.”

“Shee-it.”

“Yeah.” 

Peter fidgets under Roman’s hands, unable to sit still this close to moonrise. He traces patterns on Roman’s forearm, scratching spirals and stars and the crescent moon into his skin. The patterns flush red for a moment before fading back to Roman’s anti-tan. 

“I have to go, Roman. We’re… twenty minutes from moonrise? Trust me, you don’t want the wolf running wild inside.” It freaks the wolf out, for one, and the wolf is more destructive than the average puppy. Besides, Olivia’s tolerating his presence in her home with snide remarks and overcooked steak. She’d tolerate the wolf by draining him of blood before daylight. 

“I’m going with you.”

“Like hell you are! You just got out of a coma!”

Roman stalks over to the window, yanking it open and slipping out onto the roof. He holds it open, waiting for Peter to follow. 

“Where do you even think we’re going?”

“The Godfrey Steel Mill.” Roman tilts his head in a classic _are you coming?_ motion. “Thought you could track the _vargulf_ from where we found the other half of Lisa Willoughby.”

“That trail’s two months cold. Month and a half, if you count from when we found her.” Peter follows Roman out onto the roof, into a tree, and shimmies down to a lower branch. Roman knows the way from a lifetime of sneaking out before Olivia simply stopped caring. It’s an odd thought- Lynda doesn’t really care where he goes or what he does so long as he stays out of trouble, and by trouble she means police custody or a grave. Everything else is fair game. 

“You got a better idea?” Roman drops to the ground, landing hard without bending his knees, and takes off for the garage before anyone has a chance to look out the window and see the comatose guy sneaking away. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

 

***

 

The wolf snaps at the dart as it enters his flank.

Peter wakes, aching all over, in Roman’s hospital bed, with absolutely no idea how he got there. Roman’s sleeping with his face half-buried in the sheets at Peter’s hip, snoring faintly and yet somehow managing to look like he’s just waiting for the photographer from _Vogue_ to snap the shot. Letha’s asleep in the same chair she took for most of the last month, a book open in her lap with the pages turning haphazardly in the fan’s breeze. 

Well.

That… that sucked ass, to be perfectly honest, and he sheds his skin once a month whether he likes it or not. He feels like he’s been run over by the proverbial bus. On the bright side, it’s good to know that he physically _can_ shift back while unconscious though, for fuck’s sake, at what price?

Peter reaches down to run his hand through Roman’s hair, mussing it up. Roman turns into his caress, mumbling something that may or may not be Peter’s name but, since it’d be flattering, he’ll assume it is. Like this, Peter can almost forget that he’s not entirely human. He can forget the whole mortal enemies thing between the _upir_ and the _vârcolac_ , the fact that he’s 99% sure that Roman doesn’t know he’s _upir_ and that Peter’s been keeping that little tidbit from him. Roman’s innocent in his sleep in a way he couldn’t even sham at while awake. It’s nice. Not that he doesn’t like the regular Roman, quick wit and sharp tongue and all, but this one’s nice too. 

“Roman,” he whispers, trying not to wake Letha, too, and then a little louder, “Roman!”

“I told you to wake me up when Peter woke, Le-“ Roman grumbles, not bothering to lift his head. “Shit, Peter?”

“I’ve been out, what, a day? Day and a half?”

“Two.”

“Thought so. The moon’s passed, and we don’t have a chance to have the wolf track the _vargulf_ for another month.” Peter pushes himself into a seated position, snagging Roman’s hand in one of his own. “Who died?”

Roman glances over at Letha. Her hands rest protectively on her stomach, where they do most days, now. He slips away from Peter, tossing some of Peter’s own clothes back to him and beckoning for Peter to follow. He slips into his jeans, wincing at denim against skin that wasn’t intended for denim and wondering what he ever did to Roman to deserve that, and follows him through the house to Roman’s room. 

“I didn’t want to wake her,” Roman explains. “She cried herself into exhaustion when the news came in, barely touched her dinner, and insisted that she’d sit with me waiting for your punk ass to wake up.”

“Who died, Roman?”

“The Sworn twins. Sheriff’s kids. The _vargulf_ got them in their own house, while the sheriff was standing guard outside. And this morning, after the full moon was over, Shelley’s friend Jenny.” Roman picks up some knickknack off his desk, twiddling it between his fingers. “Shell’s real messed up about that.”

Peter blanches. 

“This morning. After sunrise. You’re sure?”

“Wouldn’t mistake something like that,” Roman snaps, crushing whatever he was holding. He spins on his heel to march back towards Peter, already in a fit of pique, and the frustration drops off his face the minute he sees Peter. “Oka-ay, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

They’ve been relying on one fact this entire time: the _vargulf_ only kills as a wolf, and therefore the _vargulf_ is only a danger during the nights of the full moon. Brooke Bluebell, Lisa Willoughby, the campers in the woods, the Sworn twins… they all died on the night all _vârcolac_ have to change, no matter what. Peter’s been assuming that the _vargulf_ was bitten, not born, and that it’s incapable of changing on the nights just before or just after the moon. That’s been their safety net- if they can’t get it at one moon, they have an entire month to plan their next move. 

If it can kill on the wrong moon, it won’t stop.

“The change ends at sunrise,” he manages. “If the _vargulf_ can break that rule, they can change any time they feel like. Which means Letha and Shelley need to stay very, very safe right now.”

“Fuck.” Roman kicks the foot of his bed. “Is there anything we can do to stop it before more people die?”

_All magic has a price._

“Yeah,” he tells Roman instead, “there’s a ritual.”

 

***

 

Working magic, real magic, is euphoric.

He can see why Destiny does it, regardless of the vomiting and days laid up in bed with a migraine that are the costs of her magic. The wolf is its own kind of thrill, freedom and power unmatched by anything he can do under the wrong moon, but it’s not this sense of otherness, of another sense of rightness and wrongness beyond his usual five. 

He’s horribly nervous drawing the first few lines across the cleared section of the church floor. Nicolae taught him these symbols, made him draw them on paper a thousand times, guiding his hand and murmuring _for emergencies, only for emergencies, only when your life hangs in the balance_. Every line, every glyph, the entire damn ritual’s seared into his memory. 

He never thought he’d have to use it.

This… this is the first step on the path to becoming a _vargulf_ himself, but he’d take it a million times over if it’d save Letha and Shelley and Letha’s unborn baby. If- when- he dies, maybe they’ll name the pup after him. Lynda’d like that. 

He closes the first circle and power rushes through him. It isn’t like the change, when the moon’s magic suffuses every part of him, clearly directed to the goal of _wolf, not man_. This is power without a purpose, yet, the power of a ritual hanging in the middle. It’s the power that’ll destroy him if he stops midway or if he does it wrong- there’s only a couple places where he can choose to end the ritual, and otherwise it’s full steam ahead. 

He takes a deep breath and starts sketching in the glyphs. 

Roman’s monologuing, something about why Peter’s so damn attached to his cat and how it would be perfectly fine left with Shelley so long as Peter promised the thing was litter box trained. Peter tunes him out. He doesn’t want to think about that part. The ritual requires a blood sacrifice to even discover the price- innocence incarnate, in whatever form is most beloved to the _vârcolac_. For Nicolae, it was a mangy old mutt he’d found abandoned in some parking lot as a pup and raised. They loved it so much that the wolves cared for it- Peter’s first few changes as a pup were marked by Nicolae teaching him lupine etiquette and how to hunt in between rolling in the dirt tussling with the dog. It’s why they teach _vârcolac_ to stay unattached, for the most part. There’s a horror story about a _vârcolac_ who needed the power to save their family, but the cost was their newborn. 

Yeah. Not thinking about that.

The glyphs sing to him, a silent chorus of power resonating in slightly different ways until he finishes, whispering in the shadows of his mind where the wolf resides. It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying. It’s time.

“Hey, Roman?” 

Peter manages to keep his voice from shaking, but it’s a close thing.

“Ritual done, then?”

“Not quite yet. You wanna stop spoiling the fluffball there and pass him over?”

Roman does it without thinking. He doesn’t know how magic works. He doesn’t… shit. Peter pets his cat idly, glancing back up at Roman. 

“Roman… I forgot, I need some hemlock. Destiny keeps some in a pot at her shop and I can’t leave the circle, so can you run and get it?”

“Wasn’t the point of the whole three days you spent preparing for this so you wouldn’t forget anything?”

“I fucked up,” Peter lies. “C’mon, I don’t have anyone but you.”

“Well, if you put it _that_ way,” Roman drawls, a grin flashing like summer lightning across his face. “Hold tight while I brave the wrath of your cousin.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, watching Roman leave. He doesn’t need to see this. Let him believe Peter’s change is an outlier in the world of magic rather than the norm, at least for a little longer. Let him believe in good in the world because Peter loves this damn cat that adopted him more than the other way around and, for the life of him, he can’t imagine the cost will be worth the reward. 

“I want you to know that I love you, even when you throw up hairballs on my bed and bring me birds you caught, you beast,” he murmurs to the cat, petting it. It purrs, nuzzling up against his hand, and he gives it the one small mercy he can and makes it fast. 

Tears threaten to spill over. He lets them. The damn cat- he never gave it a name, not really, and it was Lynda who always called it his damn cat- deserved a lot better. He hopes there’s the nice brand of tuna fish in cat heaven. 

_sacrifice sacrifice no no no not right not right not right not right not RIGHT WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG_

“Beloved innocence!” he shouts at the sky. “The innocent thing that I love the most, lying dead at my feet, bled dry to trace your damn glyphs! _What the fuck did I do wrong?_ ”

_NOT RIGHT_

His head goes abruptly silent, the ritual failed, and he steps out of the inactive circle. A towel and a jug of water clean the chalk and most of the blood away. He hides his cat’s body where the wolf can’t reach it, somewhere he can come back to later and bury it properly, then starts drawing a new circle. He’ll try his own blood this time, enough that it won’t quite bleed him dry, and if that doesn’t work he’ll have to bring Destiny in to figure this bullshit out. 

He’s long since caught himself back up to where he was when Roman left by the time he comes back, a harried look on his face and a handful of hemlock in his hand.

“You know, that cousin of yours is slightly more terrifying than Letha when she decides you’re up to no good,” he comments, tossing the leaves to Peter. “Next time you need an ingredient she disapproves of you touching, I won’t get it from her.”

Peter just shakes his head, tucking the hemlock in his pocket. Roman may be _upir_ , destined to live in the darkness Peter manages to only skirt the edges of, but he’s still so untouched by the destructive edge of magic. He’s…

No.

_Shit._

He’s naïve, a human unaware of his _upir_ heritage, unaware of what he’ll become when his human life ends. He’s pure despite the shades of grey he surrounds himself in, spending his time trying to save the lives of the _vargulf_ ’s future victims instead of continuing his rampant seduction of all the women in Hemlock Grove while singlehandedly keeping the drug lords in business. He’s a goddamn innocent, by the magical definition of the word, and more than that, Peter’s grown fond of the spooky fucker.

_Not this,_ he begs, and the spell surges around him in confirmation that yes, this.

He scatters the hemlock leaves and intones the prayer Nicolae used to say before the full moon, closing his eyes and shamming some sort of realization as best he can. Destiny would have laughed, but Roman’s got not experience with this kind of magic, so he’s convinced.

“All done?”

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Magic sucks. C’mere?”

Roman comes easily, drawn in by the promise of the whatever it is sprawling between them, the maybe that’s been drawn out into sharp tension by Roman’s coma and the whatever-the-fuck that happened on the last full moon, falling to his knees just inside the circle. Peter draws him into his arms, clinging to Roman just as he clings to Peter, and they fall into the kiss like a fucking romcom. 

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, wrapped up in each other, Roman’s shirt hanging loose from his chest and Peter’s somewhere across the room. Roman kisses like it’s a beginning and Peter kisses like it’s an ending and they’re both as right as they are wrong. It’s Roman who pulls away first, taking Peter’s knife and twirling it between his fingers.

“Can I?”

“Of course,” Peter breathes. He’s been shit at denying Roman anything in the time they’ve known each other, these few scant months, so why would this be any different? 

The dazzling smile he gets in return almost masks the bite of the knife in a neat line across his collarbone. Roman draws patterns across his skin that burn like the magic roiling under his skin, he licks them away, and Peter winds his fingers through Roman’s hair and revels in Roman, freed of all propriety or restraint. This is them, ancient magic taken new form, and it is glorious. 

“Shee-it,” he swears, and Roman stops what he’s doing and looks up, Peter’s blood smeared across his lips in a gory red lipstick. 

“Too much?”

“No, no, just… shit, Roman, I might be a little bit in love with you.”

Roman hides his smile against the crook of Peter’s elbow. “You better be, wolf boy, because I might be a little bit in love with you, too.”

Peter drags him into a kiss with too many teeth to be considered anything but a claiming and slits his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hollowly. It’s not enough and never will be, but it’s all he can manage right now. There are no tears, not like there were for his cat. Tears are easy. Tears let all the upset and the frustration out, leaving him more at peace, but he’ll carry this with him forever. 

Roman lives long enough for sheer betrayal to overshadow the hurt in his gaze.

Peter works quickly. He doesn’t know how long it’ll be until an _upir_ awakens from their death, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere nearby when a pissed off _upir_ comes for him, no matter how much he deserves it.

If he survives, maybe he’ll let Roman kill him.

 

***

 

Peter falls at the jaws of the _vargulf_ , but buys Letha enough time for Roman to arrive. 

_This is okay,_ he thinks. _Maybe this will redeem me, saving her._

He no longer wants to survive this fight. It’s cowardice in it’s purest form, the desire to escape acknowledgment of what he did to Roman. If he dies here, he won’t have to see that betrayed look when he drew the knife across Roman’s throat. He won’t have to see the hurt from Roman waking to a life he never knew he had in an empty church, alone but for the detritus of Peter’s ritual smeared with his own blood. Better to die a hero than to admit that he was the villain all along.

The darkness takes him just after Shelley catches the _vargulf_ by surprise and snaps her neck. A very human body crumples to the ground, fenced between two pairs of scuffed-up expensive shoes. 

_Good,_ he thinks, and sinks into the darkness willingly.

When he wakes up, Roman’s there.

“You don’t get to die.”

Peter coughs weakly and rolls onto his paws. His legs shake under him and he shifts back into human form more easily than the change has ever come before. There’s more man in the wolf now and more wolf in the man, the boundaries between them blurred beyond recognition. He wobbles on his hands and knees, slumping against the nearest pile of debris while he catches his breath. 

He can’t make eye contact with Roman.

“Best friend admits love, slits throat.” Roman sits perched on a fallen piece of debris, cleaning his nails with the same knife that took his life. “Well, I think we win the award for most dysfunctional friendship in Hemlock Grove, and that’s including the insane werewolf who shredded her best friends in the entire world in their own bedroom. Is it something in the water?”

“Knew you wouldn’t stay dead,” Peter rasps. “ _Vargulf_ was going after Letha next and I needed the wolf to end her.”

“Except you didn’t, did you? You played dead like a good little puppy while Shelley took care of the _vargulf_ and got shot for her trouble.” Roman flicks the knife a little too hard, his icy composure shattering as it flies out of his hand and slams hilt-first into the wall three inches to the left of Peter’s ear. Peter inspects it for lack of anything better to do, keeping his head down. 

“I wish it could have been different.”

Roman throws himself off his piece of debris, landing more gracefully than he could’ve before. It’s not the preternatural grace that Olivia moves with, the one born of centuries of practice, but rather very human motions augmented by _upir_ strength that makes his landing easier. He prowls closer to Peter, staying just out of his reach.

“What the hell did you do to me? My throat _burns_ but the wound is gone, a scar thin enough to have been there for decades. I’m strong as Shelley, stronger maybe. If this is some kind of freaky gypsy magic, I don’t want it.”

“You really didn’t know,” Peter breathes, amazed. Olivia really hadn’t told him anything about his heritage. 

“Didn’t know what?” The last word cracks out with all the power Peter grew up being warned that an _upir_ wields. Peter’s suddenly glad he isn’t meeting Roman’s eyes. There wasn’t an explicit command in there, but that kind of power might be enough to force him to make a guess at whatever would make Roman happy. Luckily for him, Roman’s power is predicated upon the eye contact he’s still refusing to make, inspecting the scuff marks on Roman’s shoes instead. 

Peter tips his head back until it cracks against the stone behind him and laughs. 

What did he do? What did he _do_? He got involved when Destiny and Lynda were both telling him to pack up and run, to let Hemlock Grove deal with their _vargulf_ on their own, to stay away from the _upir_ at the heart of it all. He wanted to be one of them when he’s Romani and _vârcolac_ , neither of which earns him anything more than being an outsider. Shit, he _likes_ them, likes Shelley’s carefully considered words and rawly emotional paintings and Letha’s too-sharp eyes and soft smiles and Roman’s… just _him_ , just Roman fucking Godfrey, best friend and maybe something more, but not anymore. 

“I can’t give you all the answers,” he says, eyes closed, “but I can offer you a temporary relief.” 

Peter’s fingers close around the knife and he digs the point into the junction of his neck and shoulder, twisting it free to the sharp jab of pain and the red drops that skitter off the blade as he tosses it aside. Roman makes a quiet, shocked sound and drops to his knees.

“Peter?”

Peter tips his head away from Roman, dragging two fingers through the blood pooling slowly in the hollow of his collarbone. It isn’t the one Roman sliced open before, even though all traces of that wound have been wiped away by his change. He offers them to Roman, an offering in old ways, blood to repay blood, a life to repay a life. Blood, anyone’s blood, would satisfy Roman right now but the magic in Peter’s will keep him away from the thirst for longer, or so the legends say. 

It’s the closest he can come to an apology. 

Roman wavers. His moral sensibilities may be few and far between, but they don’t extend this far. Peter’s heard the _upir_ thirst described as an overwhelming desire, as the only balm to an ache, as air and water and a perfect steak all at once. He tends to believe what Nicolae told him once, that an _upir_ drinking blood is like a _vârcolac_ changing on the moon- an inevitability of their existence. It certainly feels like that as Roman’s fingers splay across his throat and an arm snakes around his back, pushing him away and pulling him closer so Roman can lick the blood off his chest. 

The first touch of his tongue is the end of Roman’s reservations. Peter winds himself around what he can grab of Roman, holding on desperately even as his vision fuzzes and grays at the edges.

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you,” Roman pulls away to say, taking in Peter’s pallor and the bloody mess they’ve made of each other, and then, “You look like shit.”

 

***

 

That night, Peter and Lynda take what little they can’t live without and leave Hemlock Grove, bound for anywhere that isn’t here. She doesn’t ask why he padded back to the trailer on four legs or how he managed to change on the wrong moon, and he doesn’t offer at explanation. Also on the list of things they don’t talk about are the _vargulf_ , Roman Godfrey, and the bloody imprints of teeth on his throat that even the wolf couldn’t heal. They end up in some tiny town on the shores of one of the Great Lakes where nobody asks questions they don’t want to answer and there’s no White Tower, just closed-down factories and farmers. 

Three days after they leave Hemlock Grove, Peter goes running to the oblivion of the wolf and doesn’t return for almost a week. When he does return, he’s a little more feral, a little more lost, and he goes quietly blank whenever anyone mentions Hemlock Grove.

 

_From: Destiny_

_Letha Godfrey + baby dead. Thought you ought to know._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found at my Tumblr (nagapdragon.tumblr.com), where I tend to post updates and upcoming works as I have them. If there's any additional tags I need to add, give me a shout. 
> 
> <3


End file.
